


Imposter Syndrome

by mariana_oconnor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Amnesia, Bucky Barnes mental stability is in jeopardy, Clint Barton's low self esteem, Deaf Clint Barton, Dreams, M/M, Probably magic - Freeform, Sign Language, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Clint Barton's life goes on, same as it always has, until the guy who's been haunting his dreams suddenly walks into the coffee shop he works at.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 42
Kudos: 406





	Imposter Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet that could be the beginning of a massive fic, except I have too many massive fics already and none of them is finished yet. Much thanks to [awheckery](https://awheckery.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for the beta.

He wakes up from the same dream he has had for the past week: the same face, the same voice telling him ‘I’ll find you.’ Clint doesn’t know the man, has never seen his face outside his dreams – or maybe they’re nightmares. There’s a sense of doom hanging over them, a feeling of pre-loss, like something is about to be taken from him. Clint had never thought it had a feeling before, the moment before grief, but it does. He can almost taste it every time he wakes up. They are not happy dreams, but something about the guy…

He’s like the mix and match identikit dream hunk Clint would design if given half a chance, except without the weird Frankenstein feel. He remembers every detail of him when he wakes up: slate blue eyes, dark hair that falls just right onto his forehead, a face that could grace a movie screen, shoulders you could really grab onto, and thighs… well, thighs that would spell Clint’s utter annihilation if they were real. It really sucks that he only exists in Clint’s nightmares, because if that guy were walking out and about, real time, Clint would climb him like a tree.

He rolls out of bed, the world a buzz of muffled almost silence before his aids are in. He rocks into the shower blind, his eyes barely open, and just leans against the wall, letting the water hit him until he’s got enough willpower to lift his arms and clean himself. Would it be weird to jack off to a nightmare? Probably. He’s running late anyway – he’s always late. No time for fun time. Aw…

The towel he drags over himself is rough enough to wake him up a bit more. One day he dreams of getting one of those huge towels you see on the shampoo adverts, the ones big enough to wrap all around you and that look like they’re made out of literal clouds. That’ll be a good day.

He hums happily to himself as he pulls on pants, then remembers he needs boxer shorts because last week his pants ripped and he accidentally flashed some old guy in the park. So he takes off his pants again, puts his boxers on back to front, takes them off again and gets them on the right way round, then drags his pants on again. He’s got a clean t-shirt, which is the kind of victory he doesn’t get very often, but he only realises that he’s put it on inside out when he’s already out the door, so the girls in 4D get to see his abs as he changes it in the rattling old elevator. They don’t seem impressed. But then, he’s pretty sure they’re gay so… wrong audience.

The coffee shop is already open when he gets there.

“You’re late,” says his boss, but he’s not fired so he supposes that’s a bonus.

“Need a new alarm clock,” Clint tells him. His alarm clock is his phone. His phone has decided it only wants to make sounds some of the time, usually when he’s somewhere quiet. Technology fucking hates him, it’s a theme. The TV in the corner is showing adverts for the new StarkPhone, but the price tag is twice his monthly salary. No thanks.

He makes coffee… then he makes some more coffee. Listens to what snatches he can hear of Jo and Mark bitching about Cal behind her back, and is grateful that he’s mostly deaf, because if he had to listen to any more of that, he’d probably have punched something by now.

Coffee, coffee, coffee. He pours them, but doesn’t drink them. One complex, one plain, one that doesn’t even have any coffee in, the next one over-caffeinated, the next one decaf. Non-fat, soy, full cream, extra shot of espresso, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, black as the night.

Jo taps him on the shoulder to let him know she’s taking her break, so he shifts from the coffee machine to the register, taking orders. Mostly he tries to avoid it because he knows he’ll fuck up half the orders; they speak too fast and mumble and look away, and sometimes they’re on their goddamn phone and…

Clint’s life is not what he’d wanted. But he figures it’s a life, and it’s probably better than what his brother’s got in jail. It’s an ordinary life. He’s got a job, gets tips, got a roof over his head and enough money to pay the electric. But sometimes… he feels like it’s wrong, like a pair of jeans that don’t fit right, but you’ve got in your closet because… well, who the fuck knows. Maybe they belonged to a one-night stand from five years ago.

There’s a newsflash on the TV. The Avengers have saved the day again, and there’s a deep aching longing in Clint’s chest, like something struck a chord in him.

He’s watching Cap and the rest fight off a giant worm on 5th Avenue, but the scrolling bar is telling him that Cap ended up being airlifted to hospital. Fuck. He reminds himself that he’s not a fanboy, and he’s got a job to do, and turns back to the girl at the counter. He’s missed her order and she’s glaring at him.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” he asks, trying for a polite smile.

“What, are you stupid?” she asks, then rattles off her order, twice as fast as before, something long and involved. He’s going to get it wrong.

“I…” Clint’s voice is punched out of his body. Not physically, no one hits him, though sometimes, on his worse days, he wishes someone would. It’s because he catches sight of the guy who just walked through the door. He knows his mouth falls open, and he’s dimly aware that the girl who is trying to order is saying something offensive about people with mental health issues, but Clint can’t help it, because he’s staring at The Guy from his dreams – nightmares – whatever. And The Guy is Staring Back.

He looks so much better in reality, like the dream was seen through one of those fuzzy internet filters or something. His face is clearer and somehow even more handsome, the cut of his jaw practically lethal. His eyes are bright and looking at Clint with some emotion Clint can’t even begin to understand. His body moves with a single-minded focus and determination that is making Clint’s mouth dry, and Clint was right about his thighs. The way they strain against the denim… He’s going mad, this must be madness, because his dream is walking towards him.

Dream Guy pushes past the queue, getting the expected reactions, until he’s standing right in front of Clint. Mark’s trying to appease the girl whose order Clint has no interest in, and somewhere through the fuzz of coffee shop noise he hears the word ‘manager’.

“Clint?” the guy says. Clint can’t really hear it, but he knows the shape of his name on those lips.

“I know you,” Clint says, and the guy looks like he’s about to cry… sort of. His face barely twitches, but something in Clint knows how to read him. How does he know this man?

“Fuck, Clint… I thought…”

There’s a tap on Clint’s shoulder and he turns to see his boss standing there, eyebrows raised, asking him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

The guy – The Guy – must say something, because the manager’s eyes slide to look at him over Clint’s shoulder. There’s too much hubbub to work it out, though. It seems like half the coffee shop is watching this play out, then he sees a hand – a metal hand – reach past him, holding a card. Clint’s hearing isn’t for shit, but his eyesight makes up for it, when he needs it to, so he catches the logo – The Avengers logo – in the corner of the ID card, and he gapes some more.

His boss looks appeased, if uncomfortable, and nods. He manages to catch that he can have the rest of the day off because he’s wanted for Avengers business. What the fuck? Then his dream guy – is it creepy to think of him like that? – escorts him over to a booth in the back of the coffee shop, asking for two black coffees as they go.

Clint follows him helplessly.

“Who are you?” he repeats when he sits down, and the guy says something, but he’s looking out at the rest of the coffee shop with a tight glare and Clint can’t see his lips properly, so half the words are lost. “You’re gonna have to repeat that,” Clint says, gesturing at his ears. “My hearing’s not so good.”

“I know,” the guy says, “but the hearing aids Stark gave you can usually…” Clint’s blank look must register. “Fuck,” the guy says with feeling, but rather than getting annoyed at Clint, he picks up his hands and starts signing. “Guess you don’t have those anymore either.”

“Apparently not,” Clint says, going along with it, because that’s what you do when law enforcement starts asking questions – go along with whatever’s easiest and doesn’t end up with you in jail.

“You know me?” the guy asks. “How?”

“I…” Clint knows he blushes bright red, because he sees the man’s eyebrows pull together in surprise. “I dreamt about you,” he admits. The look fades to utter amazement. Clint might even call it awe, except he’s never inspired that feeling in anyone. “Who are you?”

“So you dreamt about me, but you don’t know my name?” The Guy asks. Clint just nods.

“I’m Bucky,” the guy signs. His signing is quick and clear. He’s clearly practised at it. He even gets the grammar, which hearing people often flub. His finger spelling is clean and quick. He starts what might be a name sign, then stops himself, so there’s just a B hanging there in midair for a moment. “Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Clint Barton,” Clint says, because yeah, he knows his own name. The world’s a little wonky today, but he knows that much.

“And you work here?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah.”

“How long?” Bucky asks.

“Is this an interrogation?” Clint shoots back, because he’s been interrogated before. Bucky quickly shakes his head, signing ‘no’ a few times for good measure. “Then why do you care?”

“Humour me,” Bucky signs. “How long you worked here?”

“Almost a year,” Clint says with a shrug.

“If I said the name ‘Hawkeye’, what would that mean to you?” Bucky asks, and Clint stares at him blankly. He can see Bucky’s face fall.

“Is that like a codeword?” Clint asks. “Am I a sleeper agent?” He looks around in concern. “What are you…?”

“What about archery, what do you know about archery?” Bucky asks, and there’s something almost desperate in the way he moves his fingers. It’s abrupt and jerky and his face is set in a hard line of determination.

“I don’t…” Clint starts, but there’s something… he rubs at the tips of his fingers and there’s an echo of sensation in his hand. “I don’t…”

“This is going to sound crazy,” Bucky signs. “But please, Clint. I need you to hear me out.” Clint nods, because he’s only just met Bucky for real, but he knows he’d do pretty much anything for those eyes… and those thighs – sadly hidden by the table. “You’re not who you think you are.”

“Uh…” Clint says.

“I thought I was going crazy. Steve thought I was going crazy. I woke up a week ago and the world was wrong.” A week ago was when Clint had had the first dream, the first time he saw Bucky’s face. “Almost everything was the same except… not, and no one saw it but me. I thought maybe it was… My brain’s not the best. I thought perhaps I was crazy, maybe they’d fried me one too many times, because no one else remembered you.”

“Me?”

“Not even Natasha.”

Who the fuck is Natasha? Clint almost asks, but he holds his tongue. He feels like that question will only cause more problems.

“But then I walked in here today and you’re right there, and you remember me.”

“Uh…” Clint says again. He’s really doing well at this conversation thing. It seems about right that the hot guy he’s been dreaming about for a week would turn out to be real and then be completely mad.

“Shit…” Bucky runs a hand through his hair and flexes the other, making the metal plates that make it up move in interesting ways. Clint probably shouldn’t be aroused by that, but it’s sending shivers down his spine. “I’m doing this wrong,” he signs.

The metal arm suddenly rings a bell in Clint’s mind, because there’s only one person with a metal arm who’s associated with the Avengers as far as he knows.

He’s been dreaming of The Winter Soldier. Holy shit. The guy’s not really an Avenger, yet, although there’s some sort of process in play. It’s complicated, Clint doesn’t pay attention. Or he didn’t pay attention… until a week ago. There’s a feeling in his head like an itch. 

“I…” he starts. “What happened a week ago?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky signs. “I woke up and you weren’t there. And then, in the tower, instead of you, there was this guy. Trick Shot?” Clint knows about Trick Shot. Of course he knows Trick Shot. Everyone knows the Avengers. “Chisholm? He’s… everyone seems to think he’s always been there, and no one’s got a clue you exist. I tried to find you but there are no records.” Clint’s never lived the kind of life that makes much of a paper trail, so that makes sense. But Chisholm. He remembers Buck Chisholm, a half remembered memory from years ago, back in the circus that he and Barney had stayed at briefly. But that’s not right… it all feels hazy and stop-motion. He shuts his eyes to think, forgetting that’ll stop him from seeing Bucky’s hands. Bucky taps him once to make him open them. “Do you know the guy?”

“Yes… I… So you think I… You think I’m an Avenger?” Clint signs the last part, haltingly, because saying it outloud so people can hear it seems too much.

“I know you are.”

“But how? What can I do?” Clint asks.

“You’re the world’s greatest marksman.”

“No,” Clint says. “Trick Shot is.” He knows that. It’s the guy’s whole thing.

“Yeah, well today he missed and Steve got half eaten by a giant worm. You never miss.”

“I don’t even know how to shoot!” That’s not true. Clint knows how to shoot a gun. There are no good stories behind that, though..

“Yeah… you do,” Bucky says and signs at the same time. “You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen…” he looks so earnest as he says it. “And if this guy, Chisholm, did something to take your place, then he’s up to no good.”

“What can I do?” Clint asks. “Even if I was an Avenger in your time, I’m not now. I don’t know how to shoot, I’m not a hero. I’m just a regular idiot who can’t even put his clothes on right.”

“Glad to see some things don’t change,” Bucky signs with a fond smirk. Clint blushes at the feelings that smirk gives him. If the situation wasn’t so weird, he’d be asking Bucky if he wants to head back to his place. But things are weird and he needs to focus on something other than the heat of promise in Bucky’s eyes as they dip down, almost unbidden, to Clint’s chest.

“And how come you remember me, if no one else does?” Clint asks. Bucky winces and looks away.

“I don’t know… perhaps it’s because of what Hydra… what they did to my brain. I’ve been wiped so many times and my brain sort of… reconstructed itself around it, so maybe I was immune to whatever changed things. Or…” His hands pause and he looks at Clint.

“Or…” Clint prompts.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky signs.

“If you’re trying to work out what happened, then I’d think that any ideas you’ve got could be useful,” Clint says, trying not to think too hard about what it means that he’s actually believing this bullshit. Bucky’s face twists, then sets into cool blank lines that barely conceal his emotions.

“It might have been a proximity thing,” he signs. Clint prompts him to go on. “I was… touching you when whatever it was happened.”

“You said it happened at night,” Clint points out, then realisation dawns on him. Because Clint’s only met this guy for half an hour, only dreamt about him for a week and already he wants to lick the pulse point on his neck just to feel the rasp of stubble on his tongue. Of course he’d make a move if they’d known each other longer. But to the level where they’re sleeping together, not just sleeping together? And apparently the Winter Soldier is a cuddler. That’s… Clint’s longest relationship was two months and a lot of legal paperwork to get that divorce finalised. He’s not… Maybe it was just sex and… they happened to fall asleep together.

Holy fuck, his alternate self is fucking the Winter Soldier. He really is the worst version of himself.

Well, that sucks.

Bucky’s looking at him with that blank look still, but underneath it – and how does Clint know how to look past the mask? – he looks raw.

“Huh,” Clint says out loud, because he can self censor when he needs to. “That’s… uh… I’m sorry?” he says, though he doesn’t know what he’s apologising for. Not being the guy Bucky wants right now? Bringing it up?

“Not your fault,” Bucky says. Clint’s not entirely sure of that. If there was some way in which he could have the perfect life and be a superhero and be having exciting sex with the hottest guy he’s ever seen and then somehow lose it all in a bet or something, Clint is willing to bet he would. That’s the kind of dumbass thing he does. “Look… I know you don’t believe me.”

“I mean… I’m pretty sure I’m not superhero material,” Clint says. “But I’ve got a hot Avenger asking me to help save the world… I’m not going to pass that up.” Something inside him is singing, and he should be telling Bucky to get lost, for all he’s an Avenger, but Clint can’t. He looks around at the coffee shop, tiny, and always the same, day in, day out. He feels that itch under his skin, and the tingle in the tips of his fingers.

“Really?” Bucky asks, his face all but lights up from the inside and Clint’s heart just tumbles over itself in response.

“Yeah… I mean… what else have I got to do?” Clint asks and something inside him settles just a bit, like a puzzle piece slotting into place.


End file.
